


Snowbound Q

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: The Sibilant Series [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Dominant Bond, Except for the character and relationship development that is somehow creeping in, Face Slapping, Humiliation, M/M, Not a romance, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Snowed In, Spanking, Submissive Q, Teasing, almost pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Q crosses his legs irritably, his fingers twitching toward his mobile. Is this something that’s allowed, he wonders? Calling up James Bond to say—what? Walk across London in the worst blizzard in years so you can come pound me into the floor?</i>
</p>
<p>In which Q and Bond are snowbound together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowbound Q

Q is snowbound. 

All of London is snowbound, giant drifts blocking doorways and the streets piled high with great swathes of white. MI6, for the first time in Q’s memory, is having a snow day.

Well, Q is, anyway; he knows M and some of the others have made it in, but Q lives farther away and his scheduled mission has been stalled, because 004’s plane to Shanghai can’t make it off the runway. So Q is still in his pyjamas at ten a.m., drinking his third cup of tea, catching up on his international newspapers, and gazing out at the snow still blowing outside his flat’s tall windows. He runs his finger idly along the edge of his stainless steel counter as he sips his Earl Grey, considering his day. He could get some work done on a few prototype weapons designs; he could spend some quality time with his “learning Urdu” program; or maybe he could…

He glances at his mobile. What is James Bond up to on this snowy day? 

It’s been five weeks since Q and Bond came to their understanding after the party—well, after Bond made him put on a dress, showed him off to England’s finest, and fucked him in the back of a limo. _This is a kind of game for me_ , Bond had said; shoving Q around was a kind of game, one he wanted to keep playing. Q wants that too. But Bond had been called off on a harrowing, obnoxiously long mission the next morning—one Q wasn’t involved in—and he’d only just returned the day before yesterday. Q has seen him around MI6 a couple times since, looking bruised but mercifully whole, but they haven’t had a chance to speak, let alone do…anything else.

Q is frankly gagging for it.

He crosses his legs irritably, his fingers twitching toward his mobile. Is this something that’s allowed, he wonders? Calling up James Bond to say—what? Walk across London in the worst blizzard in years so you can come pound me into the floor?

Q breathes deeply, trying to excise that image from his brain. Self-control, he thinks. Urdu it is.

His mobile rings.

“I’m coming over, Q,” says the harsh voice of Britain’s finest agent into Q’s ear. “If you want me to.”

Q’s heartbeat speeds up. “Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes. Can you—can you make it?” He glances doubtfully out the window.

“I’ve fought ex-KGB agents in Moscow in February, Q, this is child’s play. I’ll text when I’m downstairs. Should be about an hour. Make me a cup of tea. And take off your clothes. All of them. Now.”

Bond hangs up. Q stares at his mobile. His palms are sweating. His pulse is racing. It takes him a minute to realize he’s also grinning madly.

He goes into his bedroom and takes off his pyjamas, folding them neatly and placing them under his pillow. It’s just as well; Bond doesn’t need to see him in red plaid flannel. Q’s hands hesitate at his waist, thumbing the elastic top of his boxer briefs. Bond won’t know if he leaves them on a little longer. After all, is he really going to walk around his flat naked for the next hour?

Yes. Yes, he is.

Q slides his pants down and deposits them in his laundry hamper. He glances around his bedroom—white walls, grey trim, cold metal. Floor-to-ceiling windows, outside which the snow obscures a damn good view of the city. Q is too high up for anyone to see in, but he feels exposed nonetheless, standing naked in front of the huge panes of glass.

He shivers, anticipation running fingers up his spine.

Q showers briefly and tidies up what little in his flat isn’t already pristine. He is self-conscious and a little chilly. He turns up the heat, but it doesn’t stop the hairs from standing up on his arms.

By the time an hour has passed, Q’s stomach is in knots. He hadn’t thought himself a terribly modest person, but walking around his bright, open flat without any clothes has brought an apparently permanent flush to his face. He’s already half-hard—Bond’s intention, undoubtedly—and every inch of skin feels sensitive and bare.

Just as Q’s putting on the kettle for tea, his mobile buzzes.

_I’m here. Come down and let me in._

Q’s stepping towards his closet before his brain catches up with his body. Bond doesn’t mean, _Put on clothes and let me in_. Bond means, _Take the elevator down naked._

Q swallows. He can’t—if someone sees—

It’s his private elevator, of course, but it opens to the outside, and if anyone is on the street—

Not in this weather, his brain supplies helpfully, and anyway Bond won’t be pleased if Q delays too long, so…

So…

So Q opens the elevator door and steps inside. His bare feet are cold on the metal floor. As the elevator moves smoothly into downward motion, Q’s stomach dips too.

The elevator dings. Q’s heart is pounding, his face crimson. If anyone is out there…

“Hello, Q,” Bond says, wry amusement lifting the corner of his mouth ever so slightly as he surveys Q’s flushed face. Freezing winter air gusts into the elevator, making Q’s teeth chatter. No one is behind Bond. But Bond is quite enough.

He steps into the elevator and Q swears the freezing temperature rises just a hair.

The kettle is whistling when they walk into Q’s flat. “Please,” Q says as formally as he can manage, swallowing back his embarrassment, “take off your coat and boots. Tea will be ready in just a moment.”

Bond looks briefly startled, then grins. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Q says courteously, then loses his dignity entirely when Bond slaps his arse in passing and Q lets out a strangled noise embarrassingly close to a yelp. Bond smirks.

“While this steeps, Q,” he says, his voice lowering to that register that makes Q’s spine tingle, “go lie facedown on your sofa and wait for me.”

Q’s breath catches. He nods and turns to go.

“Wait,” Bond says. “I told you I wanted to see you crawl.”

Heat courses through Q, into his face and into his cock. He swallows. Then he drops to his hands and knees. Somehow taking that first shuffle is harder, though; a thick cord of shame twists through him, all the stronger for the fact that he’s been fantasizing about this moment for the last five weeks. It’s here now, and Christ, it’s humiliating what being ordered to crawl naked across the floor does to him.

He moves forward. He can feel Bond’s eyes on him as he shuffles toward the sofa. His flat has never seemed so big. Again he is aware of the wide open windows; despite the thick fall of snow, he feels far more exposed than in the cavernlike dimness of MI6. His skin is prickling with it. And each awkward stride on hands and knees sends tendrils of something hot and twisted through his stomach.

Finally, Q climbs up onto the couch and buries his burning face gratefully into the cushions as he stretches himself out arse-up, hands loose at his sides.

He can hear Bond moving around in the kitchen—the clink of a spoon against china, the splash of milk into tea—and then Bond’s footsteps approach. Q keeps his face hidden in the pillows, not trusting himself to meet Bond’s eyes.

Bond grasps his ankles and pulls Q’s legs up into the air. Q gasps, startled. Fuck, Bond is strong. He sits on the sofa and puts Q’s legs back down. Now Q is spread across Bond’s lap, his arse just above Bond’s knees. Q holds his breath, waiting.

“This is quality tea, Q,” Bonds says. Q pulls his face out of the pillow and cranes his neck around. Bond is sipping tea from one of Q’s white china cups, one muscled hand resting on the back of Q’s thigh. “This tea is worth taking my time over, I think.”

He sips again. Q takes a deep breath. All right. He can wait for Bond to finish his tea.

Bond’s fingers slide up, brushing the bottom of Q’s arse. He sips slowly, then moves his fingers higher, running them gently across Q’s crack.

Q bites his lip.

Bond slips his thumb a little farther into Q’s crack and rubs it back and forth. He takes another sip.

Q shoves his face back into the pillow.

Bond’s thumb makes brief, feather-light contact with Q’s arsehole.

_Shit_ , Q thinks distinctly, and his whole body jerks as he lets out a yelp.

“Hush,” Bond says. “Be quiet while I drink my tea. And be _still_.”

Suddenly it is the hardest thing in the world for Q not to move. Bond runs his fingers slowly across Q’s arse, brushing, kneading gently, slipping in and out of his crack, teasing, _teasing._ Q hears, over his own harsh breathing, small, leisurely sips of tea as Bond’s fingers move maddeningly over Q’s bare skin. Each touch is more intense as Q grows ever more sensitive; his cock is pressed uncomfortably against Bond’s legs and it’s a terrible struggle not to buck up or down. Bond’s fingers press against Q’s arsehole again, circling the rim, not quite entering, and Q bites back a sob.

Q hears the clink of china as, at long last, Bond sets his cup down. Suddenly both Bond’s hands are on Q, one thumbing the very top of his crack and the other snaking down to brush against his balls.

Q jerks involuntarily upwards, biting off a curse. Immediately Bond’s hands are in the air, no longer touching Q. Q goes still, but it’s too late.

“I’m not happy about that, Q,” Bond says sharply. Q’s gut twists guiltily.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out a little higher and thinner than he’d like.

“Not good enough.” Bond’s voice is unyielding. “But I’ll give you a choice about how to make it up to me. Either I don’t touch you at all until you’ve calmed down, or I give you a good spanking right now.”

Q’s head swims. Oh, God, he can’t wait any longer. “The—the second one,” he says breathlessly.

“What’s that?” Bond’s voice is tinged with amusement. “What is it you want me to do to you, Q?”

Q squirms. “S—spank me,” he stutters almost inaudibly. Saying the words aloud makes him flush with embarrassment.

“Louder.”

“Spank me.”

“Fine.”

Q feels Bond resettling. His arse is still tingling from the teasing, and the air is cool against it. He waits to feel that air swoosh as Bond’s hand cuts through it, but nothing happens.

“Please,” Q blurts out. “Please, now, please—”

“Please what?”

“Spank me. Oh, please, Bond, do it, spank me, please spank me, I want it, spank me, spank me,” Q babbles, helpless to stop, “please spank me—”

_Smack_. Bond’s hand comes down sharp against Q’s arse. Q cries out as it lifts up again, leaving his arse smarting.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Q gasps, and Bond hits him again. Each smack is loud in Q’s silent flat, and each one stings harsher than the last, biting moments of pain that shock Q’s breath from his lungs. He can’t help but move now, pushing his arse back to meet Bond’s hand, craving and hating the cruel slaps. Q’s cock is hard but his arousal is concentrated in his arse, which feels like it’s on fire.

“Christ, you’re pink,” Bond says, sounding ever so slightly out of breath. “Gorgeous.”

Shame and pride well up inside Q, giving the pain a strange, hot edge. Q feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but they don’t fall. Bond slaps his arse one last time.

“Good boy,” he says, the twist of a sardonic smile in his voice. Q lies there, panting, glad it’s over but wanting, needing more.

“Please,” he manages, his voice hoarse. “I—please…”

Bond rubs his hands over Q’s smarting arse, up his back, into Q’s hair. He tightens his fingers and Q feels the sharp pull on his scalp.

“Not just yet, Q,” Bond replies. “Lunch first.” 

Q thinks for a moment that the haziness of his mind has prevented him from hearing Bond correctly. But then Bond swings his legs up again and strides into the kitchen. Q watches him in a daze, the side of his face still mashed against the pillow.

Bond returns with a glass of water. “Drink,” he orders, and Q does, propping himself up on an elbow. He thinks perhaps he ought to get up and help Bond with whatever he’s now doing in the kitchen, but he doesn’t seem to be able to move. His body is buzzing with arousal, but his limbs feel limp and boneless and after the first few minutes waiting isn’t so unbearable anymore.

Bond comes back with two toasted cheese sandwiches. Q chews his slowly, and the world grows sharper again. Bond is finished before Q is halfway through; Q wonders suddenly how much he ate on his last mission.

“Better?” Bond asks. Q nods. “Good.” Bond stands. “We’re going out.”

Q blinks up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have any decent scotch.”

“I don’t have any scotch at all.”

“Exactly.”

“There’s a blizzard out there. And I’m…” He doesn’t say, _naked_ , or _pink-arsed_ , or, _still a little bit hard_. He doesn’t think he has to.

“The snow’s better than it was. And you’re fine. Up.”

Q gets unsteadily to his feet. His arse still smarts a little. He’d really like Bond to touch him now.

“I’ll get dressed then,” he says instead.

“No.”

Q stares at him. The elevator is one thing, but he’ll catch his death if he goes out naked—not to mention the fact that MI6’s quartermaster _really_ doesn’t need to be arrested for public indecency.

“I saw a very long, very warm coat in your closet,” Bond says, raising his eyebrows. “And a tall pair of fur-lined boots. Didn’t I?”

“I…yes.” Q’s grandmother, for some reason, thinks London is subject to more extremes of temperature than the rest of the country. Q rarely has reason to wear the coat she gave him for his first Christmas in the city. He certainly has never worn it under…these circumstances.

Q stares after Bond as he goes to fetch it. Obediently, Q spreads his arms for Bond and Bond slides the coat on him. Its fur lining is soft and strange against Q’s bare skin. Bond does up the buttons all the way to Q’s chin, hiding away his nakedness. Q steps into the boots, once more a little dazed.

Bond pulls a hat down over Q’s head, then stands back and smirks. “Warm enough?” he asks.

Q knows that Bond is mocking him for blushing again, but he nods anyway. Bond watches Q with hooded eyes as he puts on his own coat and boots. He doesn’t take his gaze off Q until they’re outside, standing together in the swirling snow.

“I passed a liquor store on my way here,” Bond says, and sets off.

The first time they encounter another person, Q’s heart starts racing. He knows the middle-aged woman shoveling the sidewalk in front of the corner store can’t tell he’s naked, but oh, does Q feel it. He averts his gaze, trying not to notice the coat’s fur lining rubbing against his sore arse, his nipples, his embarrassingly twitching cock. Bond smirks at him again and Q swallows.

The liquor store is twenty minutes and four unsuspecting pedestrians away. Q feels exposed to each one, like if he meets their eyes, they’ll _know_. The store itself is worse: Bond lingers unnecessarily over the rows of scotch, as if he doesn’t know which kind he wants, and makes Q pay the lone cashier.

“Thanks for coming out in this weather,” the man says, and Q nods, his heart in his mouth. When the man hands over the change, their fingers brush, and Q pulls back as if scalded.

“What are you afraid of, Q?” Bond murmurs in his ear as they exit the shop. “That they’ll guess you’re naked under your coat? Or that they’ll be able to tell how utterly turned on you are right now?”

Q swallows, wanting to say something defiant, but oh, shit, is Bond ever right.

Bond puts his hand on the back of Q’s neck, burrowing down below the coat so his cold fingers rest on Q’s bare skin. As they walk, Bond runs his finger up and down. The motion is so similar to the way he teased Q’s arse this morning that Q knows it’s no accident.

“You’re a cruel man, James Bond,” he murmurs, and Bond squeezes.

“Am I?” he breathes into Q’s ear. “You want a little relief? I’d say you’ve earned it.”

He shoves Q suddenly down a side street, then into a narrow little alleyway between a butcher’s and a fancy grocer’s (both closed), and pushes Q up against a brick wall.

His mouth closes in on Q’s. After a wet warm moment his tongue thrusts inside, and oh, God, Bond kisses like kissing is fucking: unrelenting, demanding, remorseless. Q can’t catch his breath. Bond’s teeth pull at his lip, and then his tongue is down Q’s throat again. And then his hand thrusts in between Q’s coat buttons and his fingers close around Q’s cock.

“Bond!” Q pulls back and his head slams against the brick wall. Bond turns utterly still, but doesn’t remove his hand.

“We’re in public,” Q hisses, still panting.

“Yes,” Bond says. “We are.” 

“If someone sees—”

“Who is going to see?”

It’s true, the street is utterly deserted, the shop windows dark, the snow still eddying around them. But still. Q may have exhibitionist fantasies but his entire job is staying unseen, under the radar, and it’s a hard habit to break. Bond’s job, of course, is often just the opposite: causing a spectacle and getting away with it.

Q’s cock twitches under Bond’s still fingers. Slowly, Bond moves his hand down, down, down. Q’s eyes flutter closed.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

A split second, and then Bond’s mouth is on his again, relentless, and his hand is moving fast on Q’s cock. It’s dry and a little harsh but Q is reminded sharply of the fact that he still hasn’t come today, even after the teasing and the spanking and walking around naked under his coat, oh Christ, he’s naked under his coat, in the middle of a London alleyway, and James Bond is jerking him off harsh and hard and _oh fuck._

Q spurts all over Bond’s hand and Bond fucks him through it, his mouth on Q’s the whole time, breathing in Q’s ragged breaths and muffled cries. Finally, Bond pulls back.

Q leans against the wall, eyes shut, letting his breathing return to normal. He’s wet; oh, hell, he’s wet. His come is all over the inside of the jacket. It’s dripping down his naked legs.

Bond laughs at Q’s expression and wipes his hand in the snow.

“Come on Q,” he says, “only fifteen minutes till you’re home.”

 

 

 

Bond lets Q wipe himself off once they’re back at his flat, but he doesn’t let him get dressed. Instead, he pours them both a finger of scotch and they sit at Q’s kitchen table and drink. Q watches Bond sip slowly, savoring the honey-gold liquid as if it’s been a long while since he’s last been able to take his time like this. Maybe it has. The scotch is surprisingly pleasant to Q, warming his throat and belly. It’s strange to sit naked in his kitchen while Bond is clothed; strange, too, to drink with the man as if their relationship is casual, companionable. It makes Q twitch nervously, but not unpleasantly.

Bond finishes his drink before Q. Q expects him to pour another, but instead Bond’s eyes flicker to him.

“Don’t swallow,” he says as Q takes a sip, and, startled, Q obeys. Bond leans in and presses his mouth to Q’s. Q opens automatically and Bond drinks the scotch from Q’s mouth, his tongue licking along Q’s teeth. It is shockingly intimate. Bond pulls back and Q stares at him, suddenly breathless.

Without breaking Q’s gaze, Bond lifts Q’s glass to Q’s lips and tips it up. Scotch pours into Q’s mouth, too much, some of it dripping down Q’s chin before he can stop it. Bond smirks and kisses Q, licking the scotch from Q’s mouth, his lips, his chin, and then tracing his tongue along the line where it has dripped down his bare neck. Q shudders.

Bond downs the last of Q’s scotch in one gulp and then presses his mouth to Q’s nipple. Q gasps at the feel of Bond’s wet, warm tongue, and then again as Bond’s catches his nipple in his teeth and pulls.

“On your rug, on your back, _now_ ,” Bond orders, his voice harsh and hoarse. Q’s stomach turns over and heat rockets through his body. He stumbles to his feet and out into the living room, then sinks down on the carpet.

Bond follows, unbuttoning his shirt and shedding it onto the floor, pulling off his undershirt, unzipping his pants, kicking off his shoes and socks. Q watches, stunned—he has never seen Bond entirely naked before—as Bond unceremoniously strips off his boxers, dropping them near Q’s feet. 

Bond looms over him. He is compact, muscled, just as Q has pictured. But he is also far more scarred than Q realized: an ugly web of gnarled skin crosses over his right shoulder, he’s got a couple pockmarks on his torso that Q is sure are old bullet wounds, and a number of smaller gashes—ranging from faded white to fresher, brighter red—mar the skin of his legs and arms. In addition, several large yellowing bruises bloom across his left hip, marks from his latest mission.

It is probably wrong to be turned on by such proof of Bond’s pain, but Q finds the scars and bruises almost disturbingly arousing. Bond has survived so much—Bond has fought tooth and claw to stay alive. His scars are proof of that: of his raw power, his ruthlessness, his terrifying, merciless strength. He stands over Q, who is lying flat and bare below him, and Q wonders how his own nakedness makes him feel helpless while Bond’s makes him seem all the more powerful. 

Bond’s eyes move over Q’s body hungrily and Q feels a delicious shoot of fear spring up in his stomach. “Don’t move,” Bond says softly. Then he bends down and pulls a condom and lube from the pocket of his discarded pants. He rips open the condom and Q watches, growing confused, as he kneels down and leans in—then slides the condom over Q’s cock.

The sudden flare of anticipation in Q’s belly is even stronger than the warmth of the scotch. He watches, not breathing, as Bond slicks up his fingers and reaches behind himself. Q wants to crane his neck to see, to see Bond, oh, God, James Bond fingering himself, but he forces himself to be still. The look on Bond’s face is one of mild concentration; Bond looks barely fazed by putting his own fingers up his arse, but Q recognizes the hot glint in his eyes that belies his stonelike appearance. Q, meanwhile, keeps having to remind himself to breathe.

Finally, Bond sinks to his knees, straddling Q. As he goes slowly to the ground, he wraps a slick hand around Q’s cock and lines it up. Q almost cries out when he feels himself pushing against Bond’s arsehole but wills himself to be still. Slowly, slowly, Bond sinks down. Q’s cock encounters resistance and then, suddenly, give, but Bond doesn’t change his pace; he slides down fraction by fraction—maddeningly, impossibly slowly. Q wants to fucking _scream._

It feels like time itself has slowed to a crawl. At long, long last, Q feels Bond’s arse against his crotch. Bond is on his knees, sitting effortlessly atop Q without resting his whole weight on Q’s abdomen, and he is so, so tight around Q’s cock. Q rests his hands palm-up against the floor and breathes, just breathes, and waits.

Bond watches him waiting. His hands rest on the floor in loose fists; his back is straight; his eyes are bright and hard and hungry. Q is almost crying with anticipation, trying to keep still while he waits for Bond to ride him till he cries for real.

“Don’t move,” Bond says again, and puts his hand around his cock. He pulls on it once, twice; Q’s heart is pounding wildly. His cock is twitching. Adrenaline is pulsing through his body.

Bond keeps running his fist along his cock, rhythmically, slowly. He stares at Q as he does so. Aside from his hand, the rest of him is utterly still.

Q’s body is on edge, waiting, _waiting_ , but Q’s brain is slowly catching on. Bond _isn’t going to move._

Q’s eyes widen. He forces his fingers to stop themselves from clenching. It dawns on him for the first time how truly pinned down he is; he couldn’t buck up into Bond if he tried. He has no choice, he realizes, but to sit here, his cock sheathed in Bond’s unmoving arse, as long as Bond wants.

Bond smiles at Q: slowly, wickedly. He keeps up his rhythmic pace on his own cock. He doesn’t look anywhere _close_ to coming.

“For fuck’s sake,” Q blurts out suddenly, surprising himself. “You’re _killing me_ , you absolute _arsehole_.”

Bond’s hand hitches. He looks shocked, then briefly angry, then lets out a bark of a laugh.

He reaches out and slaps Q’s face. “Just for that, I’m going to take twice as long,” he says, and slows his other hand.

Q’s cheek stings. Q’s head spins. He thinks, probably, that this is what he wanted: to be pinned below James Bond for just a little longer. He thinks, probably, that he likes to torture himself.

And it is torture, watching Bond’s hand move along his cock, listening to Bond’s breath speed up minutely, feeling his own cock get impossibly harder as it remains trapped inside Bond’s body. And somehow he feels as if Bond is both using him to get off—a thought that makes Q perversely, embarrassingly excited—and that Bond is stripping away his defenses, leaving him helpless and exposed under Bond’s unrelenting gaze.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Bond starts making little involuntary noises, barely audible grunts as he works himself up, and his hips begin to jerk just the tiniest bit. It’s not enough to give Q any real friction, but it is enough to ratchet up his arousal to an even more ridiculous pitch. Q presses the backs of his hands into the carpet and tries to breath without whimpering. It doesn’t work very well. Bond’s mouth is open now; his legs are trembling ever so slightly, so that he feels like he’s vibrating around Q. There’s no way in hell that Q can come this way. Oh Christ…

Bond’s arse clenches around Q’s cock and Q can’t stop himself from twitching, his cock pushing up into Bond with a rush of sweet, almost painful relief. Without missing a beat or slowing his hand, Bond slaps Q’s face again.

“You get pink so fucking easily, Q,” Bond spits out as Q whimpers in shock, and then Bond is coming: spurting all over Q’s chest and chin and mouth. Bond’s holding himself as still as possible but he can’t stop his arsehole from clenching, his hips from jerking forward, and Q moans frantically as heat builds in his cock, it’s almost, _almost_ enough—

With a loud grunt, Bond stills himself completely. His face is twisted up, his cock pulsing one last time before softening slowly. Q is dripping with Bond’s come, his face wet with it, and he will _fucking pass out_ if Bond doesn’t _move, now._

Bond takes one look at Q’s wet, face, his screwed-up eyes, his wildly panting mouth, and laughs. Then he lifts himself up, sliding wetly along Q’s cock, and then slams back down.

Q shouts—maybe even screams. Bond rises up and then slams down again, fast, hard, _shit,_ Q is gasping, shouting, Bond is riding him and Q is about to explode, all his pent-up arousal coming to a head and then, _yes_ , he throws his head back and cries out and comes and comes and _comes_.

He almost whites out, his vision swimming, and after a moment of pleasure that’s almost pain and that seems like it’ll last forever, he goes limp and Bond pulls off him. Q’s legs are shaking. He passes a hand over his sweaty brow and tries to breathe.

Finally his eyes flutter open. Bond is sitting next to him, crouching like a big cat on Q’s rug, and staring at Q with a curiously intense expression on his face.

“You’d let me do anything I wanted to you, wouldn’t you?” Bond asks. His voice is oddly flat.

Q opens his mouth to reply, but something stops him. Bond’s face is intense but unreadable. Q isn’t at all sure what Bond wants the answer to be.

“No,” Q says honestly, and it’s a funny thing to say, given that Q’s face is covered in Bond’s come, that he’s let Bond slap him and spank him and jerk him off in an alleyway and order him to walk around naked all day, but it’s true. Q has his limits. Bond just hasn’t tested them yet.

Bond gives a jerk of a nod and then stands abruptly. Q rests himself up on his elbows, alarm rising in him as Bond turns away and strides over to the window. Q sees, as Bond faces the snowy exterior, that he’s got a fresh, jagged cut down his back.

“Good,” Bond says, still facing away. “Because I would, you know. Do anything to you.”

Q doesn’t speak. He’s not quite sure he understands.

“I don’t generally…feel things, Q. Not like other people do. And sometimes I can be…cruel. I meant what I told you before—I’ll have sex with you without slapping you around if that’s what you want. But if you do want me to slap you around, you’d better tell me when I push too far. Because I won’t know.”

Q swallows. He’d be lying if he pretended Bond’s words didn’t make him a little bit afraid. But he stands up anyway, and goes over to Bond.

The older man is staring out into the blizzard. His face is stonelike as ever. Q doesn’t know if it costs him anything to say this, if it is difficult, if he has given this speech a hundred times before or if this is the first.

Q puts his hand on Bond’s cheek and pulls him down for a kiss. Bond seems startled for a moment and then opens up, letting Q explore his mouth gently with his tongue.

“You taste like my semen, Q,” he says eventually, and the moment breaks.

“Arsehole,” Q says, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Yes,” Bond says seriously, “I am.”

“Luckily, I like arseholes,” Q says, wriggling his eyebrows. “Especially yours.” 

Bond’s eyes widen and then roll upward. “I should slap you again for that, Q.”

“I’d like it if you did.”

Bond surveys Q for a moment, then reaches out and slaps his face.

“I’m leaving now,” he says. “Put on some clothes, for fuck’s sake.” 

Q rubs his cheek and bites back a grin. He watches Bond dress himself, covering up his bruises and scrapes and scars. He wants to say, _Thanks for braving the weather_ or _Have a safe walk home_ but instead he just stands silently by the window, feeling a strange, funny warmth, not unmixed with trepidation, spreading through his chest. 

Bond puts on his coat and boots and then turns back to Q. The two men look at each other for a moment, and then Bond steps into the elevator in silence.

When he is gone, Q takes a long, deep breath. He’s sticky and sweaty and his carpet and coat need to be dry cleaned by someone tolerant and discreet. Luckily, Q knows a few people like that. He’ll take them in when the snow clears. For now, he settles for a hot shower and his red flannel pyjamas. His body aches and his mind is whirring, but he feels good, too. It isn’t until later, when he goes into the kitchen, that he sees that Bond has left him the bottle of scotch.

He smiles crookedly and pours himself a drink.


End file.
